Enlightened and Unforgiven
by J0
Summary: Enlightened was inspired by the Blinded preview. After Elliot's sight returns he must confront a newfound fear of the dark EK. Forgiven came after watching the ep. Can Elliot forgive Casey for what she did in court? Can she forgive herself for Charlie?
1. Enlightened

Enlightened

I lie here in bed, staring up at the ceiling, surprised at how bright the darkness is. I'd never really noticed before how much ambient light there is in our bedroom after we turn out all the lamps to go to sleep. A bright ray of gold from the nightlight in the hall pries its way under the door and another tries to squeeze in at the top. None of the kids are afraid of the dark anymore, but Kathy keeps it burning for safety's sake, in case one of them wakes in the night to go to the bathroom or downstairs for a snack. Cool white light from the street lamp outside our window oozes in through the blinds, shining up onto the ceiling and throwing the textured pattern into high relief. From the bathroom, two green eyes glow at me, slightly off the level, one from the electric toothbrush and the other from my shaver. The red numbers on the clock tell me it is after three in the morning and I am still awake.

My eyes itch and burn, and tears slide out of the corners and into my ears, but I don't blink. I am afraid to close them, even just long enough to relieve the dryness. I am afraid that if I do, when I open them, everything will be gone again.

No, not gone, exactly, just, out of sight.

The whole time I was blinded, I was afraid. My first thought when I opened my eyes and found nothing there was that I would never see my wife's face again, and I realized in that moment that I had always had this image in my mind of us growing old together. I'd go bald and probably get a small double chin, not so much from fat, because I would always work out, as from the skin losing its elasticity; but Kathy, she'd grow old gracefully, staying as beautiful as she was on her wedding day even as she matured from a blushing bride of nineteen to a mother, and then a grandmother, and if we were lucky, someday, a great-, or even a great-great-grandmother. The crows feet would appear first, crinkling at the corners of her eyes whenever she smiled, frowned, or worried about me or one of the kids. Then the laugh lines would show up. They'd be there even when she wasn't smiling because, at least in my imagination, we'd been very happy together and she had smiled a lot, enough to make them permanent. Then there would be silver in her hair, first a little, and then a little more, until it was all that color, but still thick and full and beautiful. People would look at her and wonder what a handsome woman like her was doing with an old geezer like me.

Her eyes, though, they would never change. They would always be that perfect blue that could see right through our children, but became bewildered and a little hurt whenever I managed to shut her out.

Then I thought of my children. Oh, how I wanted to see them grow up! I wanted to see my son become a man and my girls mature and blossom into young women. Maureen had already done that, and, God, she was beautiful. Kathleen was well on her way, and now that I was back at home, she was dressing a little more respectably again. Elizabeth, though, she was just starting to mature. She was still my little girl. She still had her chubby baby face, and I couldn't even imagine what she would look like as a young woman. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see the way her face changed as she moved from childhood to puberty to womanhood to becoming a wife and mother. I wanted to see the wisdom growing in her eyes as her thoughts turned from dolls and sleepovers to future plans and dreams. And someday, when each of my girls brought home the boy she planned to marry, I wanted to be able to shake his hand, look into his eyes, and take his measure as a man.

Then there was the baby. I'd been there for the births of the other four, and I couldn't imagine not seeing this one as it came out to greet the world for the first time. I couldn't imagine not looking down into those big, blue, unfocused eyes and saying, as I had said to each of the others, "Welcome, little one. Daddy loves you." How could I help my wife raise a child never having seen it? How could I go the rest of my life never knowing what my youngest looked like?

Then I thought of Kathy again. How could she cope with a helpless newborn and a helpless husband? Maybe she would have been better off if I hadn't come home. Maybe she'd leave me again.

If I had been afraid before, that thought sent me into a panic. I couldn't feed myself, dress myself, or find my way to the bathroom alone. How the hell would I survive without my family, without my wife to take care of me? Of course, I soon felt like an ass for having those fears. Kathy _was_ there, and she wouldn't leave me, at least not right away. She was a good woman and a faithful wife. Even if she decided she couldn't care for me, she would stick around until I could take care of myself or hire someone who would.

Then I thought of my job. Without my job, how would I pay someone to look after me? How would I support my wife and kids? How would we afford another baby, put the twins through college, support ourselves in our old age?

My heart is pounding now, and not all of the tears that slip from my eyes are from irritation. I gasp for air, trying to reign in my emotions, my fear; and in her sleep, Kathy senses my distress and instinctively turns toward me, throwing her arm across my chest and her leg across my thighs as she nestles her head on my shoulder. She sighs and mutters in her sleep, "Mmm, Elliot," and I feel safe again.

I know I cannot continue like this. Sooner or later, I must sleep, and to sleep I must close my eyes. I know logically that the world will not vanish just because I close my eyes, but like a toddler just discovering the permanence of reality, I don't really believe it and have to prove it to myself. There is only one way to do that.

Kathy moans, and in her sleep, she places a hand on her pregnant belly. Without a thought, I lay my hand next to hers and I can feel the baby moving, a little knee or elbow pressing against my palm, and I smile. As long as I can feel it there, that tiny person pushing back in response to me, I know this is real, and lasting and that it will still be here, even if I look away for a moment. Finding my courage, I finally blink, which causes more tears to fall, and I am relieved to see that the world is still there when I open my eyes again.

Emboldened now, I close my eyes for a longer moment and wait to see, or rather to not see, what happens.

The first thing I notice is the feel of Kathy's skin against mine, how smooth it is, and the slight friction as she shifts against me with every breath. Then I hear her breathing, slow and deeply relaxed, she takes one breath to every two of mine. I feel the air tickle against my neck every time she exhales, and it sends shivers across my skin. With my hand, I trace her curves from shoulder to hip, then down to her thigh. She makes a low mewling sound and snuggles even closer against me. I press my lips to her forehead and feel the soft skin and each individual, tickling strand of hair. I can smell her shampoo and on my lips I taste her lotion, cocoa butter and something else tropical. It reminds me of some kind of fruity mixed drink that a man would never order in a bar in New York City, but he would drink more than half of his wife's if she ordered it at a resort on vacation. I smile as I realize how comforting her presence is, even when I cannot see her in the dark.

For a moment, my fear comes back. Yes, her presence is a comfort, but would she have stayed if I hadn't regained my sight? The thought is so distressing that I have to open my eyes, just for a moment, and see that she is still there. Just like in the hospital when she was always there. I was too afraid then to test the air for the scent of her perfume or listen for the sound of her breathing, so I would call out to her. Every time, she answered immediately and took my hand. Then we could sit together without talking, and I would feel safe because I could feel her there. Yes, she's always been there, from the time we were children, even when I was in the Marines, even when we were separated, she was there, my anchor, my foundation, she was there.

I'm feeling safe again. She is my courage. I close my eyes once more, and dare to explore. Carefully, I slide out of bed, trying to disturb her as little as possible. I walk cautiously toward our bedroom door, keeping my eyes closed, shuffling along in the dark with my hands out in front of me. I can feel and hear the carpet, soft and springy brushing under my bare feet until I just barely graze my fingertips against the smooth wood of the door and grope for the doorknob. I am surprised that I never noticed before how loudly the latch clicks and the hinges squeak, and I freeze and hold my breath, hoping I haven't woken Kathy. I listen intently and all I hear is the slow, relaxed sound of her breathing.

Smiling to myself, I continue out into the hallway. With my eyes closed, it is still dark, but there is a lighter quality to the darkness when I turn toward the nightlight. I don't think anyone who was truly and completely blind would be able to sense this, so I feel I have cheated by using it to orient myself, but this is, thankfully, only an experiment anyway.

I cross the hall and stop when my fingertips brush against the cool plaster wall. Listening intently I hear life in our house. My children are breathing. One of the girls changes position in bed, and I can hear the sheets shift and the box springs squeak Dickie has fallen asleep with his video game on. It is running in demo mode, and I can hear the muted sound effects. The scents of perfume and cosmetics drift from the girls room to tease my nostrils, but then I turn my head toward Dickie's door and catch the manlier odors of sweaty socks, stinky shoes, and Doritos.

For some reason tonight, I feel compelled to discover all those experiences that I have been missing by letting my mind be preoccupied with work and worry until I drift off into exhausted slumber. Turning to face away from the wall, I lean against it and slide down carefully until I am seated on the floor. I am wearing only my pajama bottoms, and the plaster is cold against my bare back. It raises goose bumps on my flesh. I can feel them erupting from my skin and under my fingertips as I rub my arms to warm myself. I am aware of things as never before. I can hear the faint rasp of friction as my hands glide up and down, feel the tickle of my body hair against my palms.

Outside, a car drives past the house. Even through the walls and windows, I can hear it. The brakes squeak when it gets to the stop sign at the corner. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a cat squalls, and I have no doubt that in a few weeks Elizabeth will be telling me who has a new litter of kittens and begging me to let her have one. I'll have to say no, because I don't want a cat around the house to be jealous of the baby, but maybe, now that she's old enough to look after it properly, just maybe once the new baby is settled, I'll talk Kathy into letting her have one. After all, it's only fair. Dickie had a turtle, until it got jammed in the garbage disposal.

One of the girls turns in her sleep again, smacks her lips, and yawns. I hear the blankets shift as she gets up. The sound comes from Elizabeth's side of the room and I recognize her footsteps as she comes out into the hall.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Then what are you doing down there?"

"Listening."

"To what?"

"Find out for yourself."

Elizabeth is my curious one. Without hesitation, she sits beside me on the floor, slides an arm behind my back, and snuggles up to my side. I drop an arm around her shoulders and we guard the silence for a little while until she whispers, "I can hear your heartbeat. Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump. And your breathing, ooooo-ahhhh, ooooo-ahhhh, ooooo-ahhhh."

"And I can feel your fingernails on my back," I tell her. "When did you start growing them long?"

"A couple of weeks ago," she says. "I want them long for homecoming, and a manicure is cheaper than acrylic nails so I have been putting clear polish on them to make them stronger."

I can't help grimacing. My baby girl is making plans for the homecoming dance. Where have the years gone? I sigh.

"What's the matter, Daddy?"

I smile. She's listening. Of course she heard that.

"Oh, I just realized that you're growing up, that's all."

She laughs at me. "Just wait until the baby comes," she says. "Then you'll be glad I'm not a little kid anymore. Why are you keeping your eyes closed?"

There is no way I can answer that question without telling her about my fears, and I don't want to lay that on her. She's my baby, and if I can give her nothing else, I can at least give her the security of knowing her dad will never let her down. So, I keep quiet and hope she will change the subject.

"Are you wondering what it would be like if you had stayed blind?"

I freeze. How in the hell do I answer that? I am sure she can feel my tension because she starts massaging my neck with the hand that is behind my back and she pats my arm with her other hand.

"We would have taken care of you, Daddy," she assures me. "No matter what happens, you never have to worry about that."

Part of me wants to cry to know that my job makes my children have to think about things like that. Part of me is bursting with pride to know my little girl is so sensitive and compassionate that she knows what is on my mind and what I need to hear.

As it turns out, I don't have to say anything. We stay quiet for a few more moments, and then she giggles. "Dickie's snoring."

I listen more closely, and sure enough, I hear it, a faint wheeze followed by a quiet whistle. I chuckle, and wonder how that must sound to Elizabeth with her ear pressed against my chest. Kathy is stirring in our bedroom.

"El?" I hear her call.

"Out here," I reply quietly.

I hear the bedclothes move, the faintest slide of silk as she puts on her robe, though I have to wonder if that's just my imagination, and then the soft padding of her feet as she crosses the carpet. The door clicks open and the hinge squeaks.

"What are you two doing out here in the dark?"

"Listening," Elizabeth tells her simply.

I hear a laugh. "To what?"

"Find out for yourself," Elizabeth tells her, and I feel my daughter's warm body leave my side. Before I can tell her to get her mother a chair, I hear a rustle of silk and Kathy is sitting beside me. .Like our daughter, she wraps one arm around me and snuggles close, rests her head on my shoulder. I want to tell her she shouldn't be sitting on the hard, cold floor, but after three pregnancies and four kids, I know she would just irritably remind me that she is pregnant, not an invalid.

"I'm going to get a drink of water," Elizabeth says.

As far as I can tell, Kathy doesn't respond. I nod my head in acknowledgment and promptly hear Elizabeth's feet padding down the hall to the kids' bathroom. The bathroom door shuts, the water runs, the disposable cup clatters softly against the sides of the trash can when she throws it away, the bathroom door opens, and she comes padding back to us.

I can sense her standing there for a minute, and finally, I ask, "Do you need anything?"

"Uh, no, no I don't," she says. "Do you?"

"We're fine, sweetie. Go back to bed," Kathy tells her.

I hear her return to her room, but she comes out again a few moments later, and I feel a soft, fuzzy blanket being dropped over us.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Kathy says.

I hear Elizabeth leave once more. Her bedroom door creaks as she pushes it partway closed, her box springs squeak when she gets into bed. There is the rustle of covers and the sounds of Elizabeth turning this way and that to get comfortable. Then all is quiet except for the sounds of the house and our breathing. At first Elizabeth's respirations are a little faster and louder than those of the other kids, but soon they turn into the deep, even breaths of sleep.

"I can hear your heartbeat," Kathy says.

I smile and kiss the top of her head.

"I love you, you know," she reminds me.

"I know."

She puts a hand on my stomach and rubs gentle circles. Her touch is warm and comforting. It goes on for several minutes, and I find I can begin to distinguish one of her fingers from the other, and every once in a while, I can feel the metal of her wedding band brush against my skin. Slowly, I feel myself begin to relax, and that surprises me because I had not realized I was tense.

"You don't have to be afraid," she says. "I'll always take care of you."

My chest feels tight, my heart starts to pound, my throat burns, my eyes sting, and I struggle to breathe. Kathy reaches up and wipes away a tear with her thumb. She kisses my jaw and whispers again and again, "It's all right, baby, it's all right."

I struggle to identify the emotions I am feeling. Finally I recognize a combination of relief and a sense of security that I haven't felt in a long, long time. My breathing comes under control, my tears stop, and I am calm again.

By this point, I think that Kathy has dozed off, so I am surprise when her soft voice comes out of the darkness asking, "How do you feel?"

Again, it is hard to find the word that fits. Relieved? Yes. Happy? That, too. Safe? Certainly. They all fit, but most importantly, I know we're in this for keeps. I'm not sure I really knew that before. Now I know.

I smile. "Enlightened," I tell her.

She doesn't say anything for a long while, but I don't feel any pressure to fill the silence. Finally, she says, "Good," and snuggles closer to me.

Her skin is soft and warm and our bodies shift sensually against one another as we breathe. I hear the change in the rhythm of her inhalation and exhalation as she falls asleep.

I could pick her up and carry her to bed, but she seems comfortable here beside me and I am content where I am. So I stay here, leaning against the hallway wall, the comforting weight and warmth of Kathy's body pressed against me, and I fall asleep to the sound of my wife and children breathing.

* * *

Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and series characters property of Dick Wolf and Wolf Productions. No profit is being made from this story. 


	2. Unforgiven

Unforgiven

She placed the flowers on the grave and moved to take a seat on a bench under a nearby tree. She hadn't been here since the funeral, and except for the priest and a couple of gravediggers, she had been the only one to attend. Charlie had been an only child. His parents were dead, and as far as Casey had known, the only friends he had left were street people. If she had known who they were and how to locate them, maybe she would have informed some of them about the funeral. If she had told the detectives, she was certain that they would have helped. They were kind, compassionate people who would have understood and agreed with her that even the homeless have a right to mourn their dead.

Some time later, she was staring at the grass around her toes, lost in thought and sadness when she was surprised to see black shoes and the legs of a pair of navy blue men's dress pants enter her field of vision and walk past her. She heard the footsteps stop close by. Looking up, she swallowed hard when she recognized the broad back and dark hair of Elliot Stabler. He was standing over Charlie's grave, and she could tell from the motion of his elbow that he was crossing himself.

He stood still for a while, and she wondered if he was saying a prayer or just thinking. She wanted to run so she wouldn't have to face him when he turned around but she stayed for two reasons: He could chase her down if he wanted to, and she would eventually have to deal with him anyway.

She saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh. He crossed himself again, and she held her breath. When he turned to face her, his expression was somber and a little tense, but not as angry as she had expected. He walked over and sat beside her on the bench, and she felt her heart move into her throat. They sat side by side for several minutes in silence. Casey was getting antsy and was just about to tell him to yell at her and get it over with already when he said softly, "You found a nice spot for him."

Casey looked around and said, "Thanks."

This part of the cemetery was screened off from the sea of headstones by a small, horseshoe-shaped copse of hemlocks. The needles they dropped replenished the soil and helped nourish the rhododendron bushes planted beneath them. The portulaca and petunias were done for the year, but a few hardy pansies were still blooming, and there were lots of bright yellow chrysanthemums. In the center of it all, there was a statue of St. Francis of Assisi talking to the animals, and a real live rabbit was hopping around under one of the bushes.

"I told the funeral director how he loved animals and liked to get out of the city and go hiking on the weekends, and he helped me find this place," Casey explained. "After he went off his meds, sometimes he would talk to animals and imagined that they answered back. I didn't mention that to the funeral director."

A gray dove lighted in one of the hemlocks and started singing its mournful song, and Casey felt her chest tighten up. She listened until she felt her heart would be squeezed to the point that it stopped beating, and finally she had to say something.

"How did you find me?"

"Olivia told me about Charlie a few days ago," he explained. "When I called your office and they said you had taken a personal day, I thought it was a pretty interesting coincidence that you chose my first day back to do it. It wasn't hard to search the city burial records and find out what I needed to know."

Casey nodded and smiled slightly. "That's what makes you a good detective."

"Yeah, I guess."

There was another long silence between them. She tried to watch Elliot out of the corner of her eye, but all she could see without turning her head was the general shape of him, solid, muscular, and a bit intimidating there beside her. She wanted to turn and look at him, but for the first time in the nearly five years they had been working together she was afraid to face him because she knew he would be angry with her.

And she knew why she was afraid.

In the past, the things that pissed him off had always been worked related. The law had dictated what she could do, and she was just a convenient target for his anger. Eventually, they closed the case, he got over it, and they moved on. This time, though, it was personal. She had used him to get what she wanted despite what the law said. Even though she was confident that she had done it for all the right reasons, it was the wrong thing to do and she wasn't sure he could ever get over it.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Elliot asked abruptly startling her out of her contemplation. "We'd have been there for you, helped you make arrangements, served as pall bearers, whatever you needed. You know that."

"I know," she responded quietly.

"Then why didn't you tell us?"

She shrugged and said meekly, "Because I was embarrassed."

She couldn't bear to look at Elliot, but she could feel him frowning at her in confusion.

"Embarrassed?" he said, and his tone of voice confirmed that she had been right about his expression. "Embarrassed about what? Loving someone with a mental illness?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but the words wouldn't come without the tears. So she closed her mouth, and the tears broke free and came on their own anyway. Elliot offered her his handkerchief, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks and dabbed at her tears.

She couldn't stop weeping, but when she could finally trust her voice not to waver when she talked, she told him, "I was embarrassed that I let it come to this, that I let him wind up on the streets where he died, that I couldn't save him."

She couldn't quite suppress her sobs anymore, and when she felt Elliot's strong arm slide around her shoulders, she finally let go. She could feel his cheek press against the top of her head as he rocked her and shushed her, and when she had finally cried herself out, he talked to her more kindly than she had any right to expect.

"I know you, Casey," he said sincerely, "and I know you never do anything halfway. There is no doubt in my mind that you did all you could to help Charlie, but sometimes all we can do just isn't enough. No matter how badly we want to, we can't work miracles."

"I should have taken better care of him," she said.

"You had to take care of yourself," he told her.

"That's just what Olivia said."

She could feel Elliot shrug when he said, "She's right."

"Then who takes care of people like Charlie?" she asked.

Elliot shrugged again. "I wish I could answer that."

They fell into silence again. After a while, Casey sniffled, dabbed her eyes dry, and returned Elliot's handkerchief to him. Then they sat side by side on the bench staring at the grave. The dove flew out of the tree. A cardinal alighted on Charlie's headstone and began its bright, warbling, whistling song.

Finally, Elliot broke the silence again.

"I understand why you did what you did to me on the stand," he said.

Casey sighed in relief, but immediately tensed again when he said, "That doesn't make it right."

He got up from the bench, approached the grave and crossed himself. The brave little cardinal stayed right there, singing away. Elliot walked back to where Casey was sitting, tense and ashamed, and placed a hand on her shoulder. It took her almost a minute to gather the nerve to look him in the eye.

He gave her a small, lopsided smile and squeezed her shoulder.

"It doesn't make it unforgivable, either."

He left her alone then, because she still needed some time to forgive herself.

* * *

Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and series characters property of Dick Wolf and Wolf Productions. No profit is being made from this story. 


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